


1892

by SpencerMalloy



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types
Genre: 1892, Angst, Diary/Journal, F/F, Gen, Hades is a dick and I'm sorry to do this to him, Immigration, M/M, Mortal AU, Not entirely sure how this is going to end yet but bitch we getting there, PJO, POV First Person, Past AU, Slow Burn, This is probably gonna get a bit sad, historical fanfiction?, historical fiction - Freeform, solangelo, thalicana, we stan Hades but I needed him to be a villian this time
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-10-12 08:57:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17464436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpencerMalloy/pseuds/SpencerMalloy
Summary: Nico and Bianca are forced to immigrate in the year 1892. America isn't all it's cracked up to be, but maybe they can find some friends along the way.





	1. Entries 1-6

 November, 1892, Home

            The last time I can remember seeing my father, he was very tall and scowling down at me from his great height. His eyes were colorless, like a broken wine bottle. So much about him escapes my memory. I can’t recall the timbre of his voice or the color of his hair, neither the curve of his smile nor how it felt for him to carry me on his shoulders. But I remember his eyes. How could I ever forget when they stare back at me from the mirror?

            Now I sit with Mama and Bianca in the aftermath of his latest letter. These past few years his correspondence has been sparse at best; and the money he sends is never enough. Mama and Bianca take to market every morning with the extra vegetables we grow to supplement our funds. For years we’ve survived without him and now he betrays us like this? Demanding we uproot ourselves and sail a world away to live with him in some barbaric country? Bianca sits next to Mama, her nails digging into her arms so hard her knuckles lose color. I pace in our sitting room, my footsteps so heavy my small frame makes the floorboards creak and groan.

            “ _Can he do that_?” I ask. “ _Will we really go? Leave Nonna behind for the New World? She can’t last weeks on a ship, Mama.”_

            “ _Yes, Bambino, I know. I know,_ ” Mama mutters. Nonna is upstairs resting and I wonder how she will take the news when she wakes. Surely she’ll put a stop to Father’s ludicrous ideas of leaving us Italy.

November, 1892

            While Mama and Bianca go to market, I start in on Mr. Russo’s wash. His wife died when I was little, and ever since then he’s been paying us to do his wash. The load lightened when his son left for America four years ago. At first he wrote every week, and then every month. Mr. Russo hasn’t gotten a letter from his son in a long time.

            Nonna helps me with the work for as long as she can even when I insist she rest.  She can’t do everything she used to be able to do before she fell last year and she’s having a difficult time accepting that. We say ‘it’s fine, Nonna, we love you! We will take care of you now, it’s okay.’ But she doesn’t listen. It’s not long before she has to retire to her rocking chair for a rest.

            I look at her sitting there, her eyes half closed and focused on something far away from reality. My Nonna is the strongest person I know, but we cannot leave her here to live by herself. She just wouldn’t make it.

 

November, 1892, Home

            Father sends another letter, and with it this time come tickets. There are two of tickets, not four. I couldn’t in a million years string together enough words to express the sorrow I feel.

            After Mama and Bianca go to sleep, I lie awake in my room dreading the sunrise. I don’t know how, but somehow Nonna must have expected this, because I hear a faint knock at my door. I tell her to come in.

            “Nico,” she says to me. There is a smile on her face that makes no dent in the sadness in her eyes. “Nico, _il mio dolce ragazzo_ , I hope I didn’t wake you.”

            I sit up to make room for her on my small bed. “No, no, Nonna. Not at all. What’re you doing up?”

            I notice a small item wrapped in cloth in her hands as she sits, pulling me into her arms. “I’m going to miss you so much, _dolcezza._ More than you could ever know.” Her words bring tears to my eyes that I hope she cannot see in the darkness.

            “Your Nonno would be so proud of you and Bianca both, you know. So, so proud,” She hugs me for herself and the grandfather I never knew. “He would want you to have this, Nico. He was saving it for you before he even knew your mother was having a boy—she didn’t approve of me giving you this before you turned fifteen but,” her voice caught in her throat. “But I think we both know that I won’t be able to give it to you then.”

            I squeezed her as hard as I dared and when I pulled away the shoulder of my sleep shirt was wet with her tears. She pressed a kiss to my forehead and retreated back to her room with her slow, shuffling footsteps creaking on the loose floorboards.

            Tomorrow Bianca and I go to the docks, and from there I have no idea what fate holds for us.

 

November, 1892, The S.S. Anne

            The underbelly of the ship is already stale with the smell of stagnant people, their lives on hold while we wait for this journey to end. The last of the bunks fill up with our boarding groups and I hope this means that we got on at the ship’s last stop before the final journey to America. Bianca and I have bunks right next to one another; mine is stacked neatly on top of hers and then bolted to the wall of the ship. I’ve never seen anything like it.

            I’ve also never seen anything like this room. I’m not sure what I expected but it certainly wasn’t this. Father said it was a small ship but Bianca and I share a large, open room with what has to be at least 30 other people. There are little children, married couples and stubborn looking older passengers. They remind me of my Nonna and I wish she could have come with us, her and Mama both. But when I tell Bianca this she reminds me that Nonna is too infirm for the journey and that Mama must stay and care for her. Mama will reunite with us when Nonna no longer needs to be cared for.

            Since we’re third class passengers, we are also required to supplement the staff of the ship. The man who is to show us our tasks has just showed up and Bianca is scowling at me to stop fussing over my journal. I will try to remember to write down how our first day goes.

November, 1892, The S.S. Anne         

            Bianca and I speak very little English, so we work in the kitchen preparing food. Other passengers, ones who can speak fluent English, are assigned to interact with the passengers upstairs. The man who explains this to us speaks no Italian. The only words from his mouth I am able to catch are ‘good morning’, 'English’, and 'kitchen.’

            We were saved by a girl Bianca’s age. She relayed his words to us after he left us with the kitchen staff, and she made us promise not to tell anyone she could speak English

            Her name is Thalia and I don’t know how she knows all she does, or why she’s here in third class. Her hands are soft and uncalloused and though she is pale with blue eyes, she can speak to us in our language. I cannot identify her accent but the glint of mischief lives in her river rapid irises. I think Nonna would like her.

 

November, 1892, The S.S. Anne

            Life on the ship is not as I expected! When I was small I loved tales of pirates and the people who roamed the seas, but it is not so! Bianca, Thalia and I spend almost all our time in the steam of the kitchen, preparing food for passengers upstairs. When we do have time to ourselves, we sleep like stones, unmovable, practically lifeless. Most of the others feel the same. They either sleep or congregate in groups in the middle of the room. It seems poker is the same in any language.

            There are very few Italian speakers on board and none of them our age but Thalia. There is an older man who teaches us how to season properly and make what little ingredients we have last. It is going to be a long voyage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey I hated how I had the format before so from now on chapters will be made up from several of Nico's diary entries at a time. This chapter is made up from what was previously chapters 1-6 so nothing new has been added to this chapter. More updates coming soon, see you then. -1/23/19, Spencer


	2. Entries 7-10

November, 1892, The S.S. Anne

            When the lady three bunks over gave birth last night, Thalia offered her own bunk to her so she wouldn’t have to share a bed with her other three, fussy children while she recovered. She and Bianca share bed now, like sisters; and they stay up giggling like them, too.

            Tonight we snuck up to the deck for the first time I forgot how much I missed the stars and constellations. At one point Thalia and Bianca decided they were too tired for the sea spray and went back to the quarters. How I wish I had gone with them now.

            When I returned long after the air had chilled me through my shirt and my skin was suitably damp from the spray that came over the sides of the boat, I knew immediately that something was wrong. Thalia’s arms help Bianca tightly as she wept into her shoulder. She looked ready to bite the head off of anyone who tried to go near them but that didn’t stop me from scrambling on to their bed and pulling the both of them close to me.

            “What happened?” I asked, my voice breaking on the words. I couldn’t remember ever seeing Bianca cry.

            Thalia’s eyes accused me of guilt but softened before she spoke.

            “I suppose the new father thinks since his wife is on bedrest that he is entitled to find comfort elsewhere.”

            I followed her glaring eyes to where they rested on a man with stringy blond, almost white hair and a face like a rat’s, pointy and sharp. Right now he cradled his newborn, but his eyes trailed over to us with a smug satisfaction. Thalia didn’t have to say anything more. The knife of Nonno’s that Nonna had pressed into my hands the night before we left for the boat now rested heavy in my mind.

November, 1892, The S.S. Anne

            The laws of 3rd class are different than that of first. Things are rarely stolen, because what little possessions we have brought with us are respected. When something is stolen, we don’t report it. We take care of things ourselves. What this man did was much worse than stealing.

            He doesn’t speak my language, but that makes no difference. He is quite fond of walks on the top deck in the early hours of the morning, though. He doesn’t notice me several steps behind him, Nonno’s knife handle making indents in the palm of my hand from how tightly I grip it. He doesn’t notice Thalia trailing the both of us, nor does he stir at the thud my back hitting the wall as she pins me to it and wrestles the knife from me.

            “Do you want to start your new life a murderer, Nico? Is that what you want?” She demands.

            “I wasn’t going to kill him, only scar him a little,” I say defensively, feeling more like a petulant child than the avenger I was attempting to be.

            She doesn’t smile at me, but her dangerous eyes light up. “There are better ways to do that, Nico. Safer ways.”

            Mr. Smith is on bed rest with his wife now after a rather unfortunate accident in the kitchen. The ship’s medic says the burns are so bad he could even lose some of the fingers on his right hand. He has my deepest sympathies, of course.

 

November, 1892, The S.S. Anne

            As much as I’ve longed to be off of this miserable boat, I am almost more afraid of what will happen when we get to the island. From the little conversation I’ve been able to make out from the other passengers; half of it has been worrisome tales of the things that happen once you get to Ellis Island. You must stand in line for hours and, no matter what, you cannot get sick. If you are unwell they can quarantine or even send you back from where you came. I want nothing more than to be back in Italy with my family, but I can’t leave Bianca alone. Not in a new country, not without knowing how to speak English, not with the father neither of us has seen for almost a decade.

            I am so worried for her. She clings to Thalia like a life vest and does not even go to the latrines alone. What will happen to her when Thalia leaves to set her own course? I will never be able to comfort the way she does, no matter how much I wish to be able to.

 

December, 1892, Ellis Island

            I haven’t had the time to write. Before we left the ship I packed my journal at the bottom of mine and Bianca’s shared suitcase and tucked Nonno’s knife into my pocket for safekeeping.

            If I thought 30 people so many, then surely Ellis Island was a city in and of itself, everyone packed into these rooms. There were more people than I’ve ever seen in my life and more than I hope to ever see again. But this is not the problem we faced. The night before we docked, Thalia came down with fever. Her skin burned as hot as her glare and Bianca and I attended her as much as she would let us. I soaked cloth in the ocean water as we just disboarded. It was cold enough to shock and told her to hold it on her forehead and cheeks, hoping she could cool herself enough to make it through the lines. I feared it would not be enough; and my fears were confirmed as Thalia collapsed right before she could give her name the woman working the desk. She was pulled to her feet and escorted to quarantine. It took all my strength to wrench Bianca from the floor, wailing. May the Lord strike me from the earth for this, but I took hold of her shoulders and shook her as hard as I could.

            “You cannot do this here,” I whispered. “We cannot be separated- we will find her when she makes it into the country. Do you understand?”

            She straightened her spine, wiped her tears, and steeled her face, chest still buckling with the sobs she was holding back. “Yes, yes. I can do this. We can do this. For Thalia.”

            I nodded relief, raking my body. “Yes. For Thalia.”


	3. Entries 11-16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Italian translations in notes at the bottom

 

December, 1892, Somewhere on the East Coast of The New World

            Seeing father again was not as I had hoped it would be. I think the worst part was that I hadn’t realized I had expectations until he didn’t meet them. But that’s okay, because things got much worse than my own disappointment very quickly.

            He allowed us sleep on the train ride to Pennsylvania, the feel of a train foreign and rough but still no match for our time at Ellis Island. When I wake, I wake to my sister’s screams.

               “No! Mai! Non lo farò mai per te, preferirei morire!” ** _(1)_** Her voice is shrill, guttural, coming from the deepest part of her soul. What won’t she do? What has he said to her to make her wish death? My eyes open to register the form of my father holding her arms away from his face as she thrashes with all her might to get to his sitting form. 

            Before I know what I’ve done, my body is between them and Bianca is pulling with everything she has to attack him.

             
“Nico, lasciami andare!” ** _(2)_** She screams. “Non mi importa se sei mio padre, non mi importa se mi possiedi adesso - non lo sposerò!" ** _(3)_**  She’s right, father owns us now. What happened while I was asleep? Marry who?

            She’s still taller than me but somehow I manage to hold her at bay. I have no idea what father would do if she hit him. Soon enough, though, I don’t have to imagine. As soon as her limbs settle I’m on my feet again, staring into the face of my father. The face I see in my own reflection, slightly more weary, with bags under the eyes and hair slicked back instead of sticking up in adolescent tufts.

            “Mai sconvolto mai più mia sorella” **_(4)_** I growl. Never hurt her again. He does not know us, know her. He knows nothing of what she’s been through. His large hand across my face makes a popping sound so loud I check to see if the socket holding my eye in has been shattered. His empty eyes stare into mine, face devoid of emotion, like this was something he did every day.

            “Farai entrambi come dico, senza fare domande. Ricorda chi ti ha portato qui, ricorda cosa devi.” ** _(5)_**

            As if either of us could ever forget who brought us here. As if either of us could ever forget the debt we owe to him. We are trapped.

 

December, 1892, Father’s home

            I have never felt like a bigger fool in my whole life. Father’s new wife prepares dinner downstairs in the kitchen of this drafty, colorless home as Bianca is introduced to the man who is to be her betrothed. I am banished to a spare room upstairs because Father rightfully suspected I would make an even bigger scene than Bianca would I saw the man from the window. He is an old man, at least father’s age if not his senior. I don’t know how he managed to keep her from screaming, but I have an idea.

            I start to compose my first letter to Mama and Nonna just as I promised I would as soon as I had a proper address. I grit my teeth and prepare to do the one thing I vowed never to do: lie to my mother.

 

February, 1894, Father’s home

            I haven’t looked at this book for so long, cracking open it’s spine again is like revisiting another me, someone who no longer exists. I’ve reread the previous pages and long to be who I was at the start of them again. These long months have been more miserable than I can bear to describe at the moment, but maybe I can find it in me to write more regularly. Maybe it would relieve some of the pressure my life has brought me lately. I can only hope so.

 

February, 1894, Father’s home

 

            I should sort out all the things that have happened the past year on paper, maybe then I can start to come to terms with them. Bianca lives with her husband, a Polish man who’s first wife died in childbirth less than half a year before we came to America. There are maybe four months before Bianca’s own baby arrives.

            Perhaps I could cope with losing my sister to her new family if they cared for her. The man’s oldest son is practically Bianca’s age and leads the two younger ones in a crusade against her like she’s lord of Hades. Her husband knows no Italian and speaks mostly Polish himself, so they meet in the middle on shaky English. When they do manage to converse, the words he tells her are not kind.

            I wish I could do something, wish I could help her. Her husband is the overseer of the mine where father and I work. If I cross him I am stranded in a foreign country with no job, no way home, and no way to support myself. Not to mention if he decided my offenses were shared by my sister. Her life is miserable, but at least she is alive.

            I am stuck between Scylla and Charybdis and there is no other escape than to hold onto my branch and hope for an opening soon. This was father’s plan all along and now we’re trapped here with him.

 

February, 1894, Father’s home          

            I write this in the late hours of the night long after the sun has set over the hills. The chill that washes over the land at night is almost unbearable; but at least I can take solace in the knowledge that spring is near.

            As if I didn’t have enough worries about the ink smudging the pages, now I worry about the coal dust that settles permanently in my skin, especially in the rugged terrain of my palms. No matter how hard the long I scrub, there will always be more soot. At this rate my grave will be nothing but a coal pit. Now that I have put that on paper, I realize I wish the chances of that being true were smaller. At the rate the mines keep collapsing I could very well spend my last hours suffocating as the rocks crush my ribs and dust settles into my lungs.

            I write a letter to Mama as often as I can; stamps and ink are the only luxury I allow myself, but… It’s getting harder and harder to spin tales to her about how happy Bianca and I are. She is completely unaware of how pale I’ve become because of the days spent in the mines. She has no idea Bianca is married, let alone pregnant. I was worried at first about how she’d react when she found out, but as the days pass it becomes more and more apparent that Mama will never come to live with us here. I go to the Post office tomorrow to purchase more stamps.

February, 1894, Father’s Home

            I don’t know which is worse, having lived in America all this time without so much as a hope that things could be better, or catching a glimpse of it and then having to return to the dark pit I was in before.

            The post office used to employ a young boy, maybe 12 or so. Someone I might have been friends with back in Italy, when I could have still called myself child at this age. Now, though, there was much more apart in us than alike. But he spoke Italian, and he was nice, so he had a lot more going for him than most of the other people I’ve had the pleasure of speaking with. The woman who replaced him speaks only English. She also hates me.

            She must have deliberately chosen to misunderstand me, because when I pointed to the shelf of stamps and held out the money for them she looked at me with disgust and started yelling at me and English. Was it the first time this has happened to me? No. Did that ease the sting? Also no. At least it’s easy to tune out a lecture when it’s impossible to understand the words being hurled at you.

            I walk out of the shop, not sure what to do. I waited until the last possible moment to restock and this is my punishment. So I’m sitting there, on the bench outside the post office, weighing my options. I could certainly try to make it to the post office the next town over, but I have no doubt I’d get lost. Getting lost outside during winter in America is not an ideal situation. Just as I was considering going into the bar to try to bribe someone fluent in English to buy the stamps for me, there was a tap on my shoulder.

               “Qui,” ** _(6)_** said a man with golden hair and sky-blue eyes, a man who was obviously not Italian. “Ho imparato alcune parole sulla barca,” ** _(7)_**  he said. “Mi chiamo Will. Tu?" ** _(8)_**

            I took the roll of stamps from him and handed the money he would have spent on them. He pocketed it without question.

            “Nico,” I said. “Grazie per l'aiuto.” ** _(9)_**

             He shrugged and flashed me a grin that stuck my feet to the ground. “Certo, Nico. Le persone come noi devono stare insieme.” ** _(10)_**

             He walked off without a goodbye.

            I’ve been in this land for well over a year and Will has been the first person to show unselfish kindness to me since I stepped onto American soil. Since I’ve returned home I’ve tried to be bitter about that, but my all efforts aside, all I can be is grateful for his kindness. I wish there was some way I could see him again. But that’s not how life goes, that’s not how it works. If I wish to keep my sanity I’ll have to let that foolish idea go and be thankful for the kindness I was shown today

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1: "No! Never! I’ll never do it for you, I’d rather die! ”  
> 2: “Nico, let me go!”  
> 3: “I do not care if you’re my father, I do not care if you own me now - I will not marry him!”  
> 4: “Never upset my sister ever again,”  
> 5: “You will do both as I say, without asking questions. Remember who brought you here, remember what you owe. ”  
> 6: "Here,”  
> 7: “I learned a few words on the boat,”  
> 8: “My name is Will. You?"  
> 9: "Thanks for your help.”  
> 10: “Of course, Nico. People like us must stick together. ”
> 
>  
> 
> [A/N]  
> hnnnnn fuck here's some italian translations fam I don't know what I'm doing
> 
> Also half way into adding the translations I wanted to bite off my own dick you have no idea. I don't even have PENIS. Have a great day.


End file.
